


Master, I love you, please rip me apart.

by kusuriuri



Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, Master Ichigo, Master/Slave, Slave Grimmjow, but Grimmjow still tops, there's some Shiro/Ichigo too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kusuriuri/pseuds/kusuriuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grimmjow shakes his head, eyes roving his Master's night attire; he licks his lips, backing away slowly. Ichigo's eyes are hooded as he lifts a knee onto the bed between Grimmjow's spread legs, a hand on Grimmjow's chest, and whispers lowly, "Kiss me." </p><p>Slave!Grimmjow Master!Ichigo. GrimmIchi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i am yours

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 12 Years a Slave and Django. The mind works in mysterious ways.

His chains jingle loudly as he shifts uncomfortably, blowing a stubborn strand of cerulean hair out of his eyes subtly. It is late morning; the sun is sweltering. The carriage carrying him and the 10 other slaves had arrived at the Kuchiki estate barely an hour ago; their chains had not yet even been taken off. They stand in an orderly row, facing the estate and backs to the field, sweating and listening to the man in front of them, and Grimmjow attempts to take in the beautiful grounds surrounding him.

Kuchiki Byakuya is the master of the estate (now also the master of them); a beautiful mansion surrounded with gardens and abundant fields, all inherited from his late father. He sits up on the balcony of the mansion at a small table across from his wife, Lady Hisana, who fans herself lightly against the hot summer sun. There is another at the table, whom Grimmjow and the other slaves had been informed is the other Lady of the house: Hisana's younger sister, Lady Rukia.

The tall red-headed man pacing back and forth along the line of slaves is the petite Lady Rukia's fiancee, Master Abarai Renji. The soon-to-be wed couple were both living in the Kuchiki estate alongside the Master and Lady as well as one other. Abarai was adept at working in fields and with slaves thanks to his upbringing and family, and so once his engagement to Lady Rukia had been confirmed, he was put in charge of everything that Master Byakuya was clearly not willing to do. Namely,  _work outside._

Master Abarai drills them on their duties sternly as he paces to and fro, and the slaves eye him warily, chains jingling loudly as Grimmjow adjusts his weight onto his other bare foot. They eye Renji warily not because his features incite fear; no, not at all. The whip he is holding, fingering absentmindedly as he speaks, makes all slaves restless and wary.

Grimmjow feels a bead of sweat run from his temple to his jaw, the thin collared shirt he is wearing sticking to his back. His hair feels grimy, his shirt is mud-stained and his bare feet are covered in dirt; mud and sweat coating his skin. He hasn't bathed in days, not since he left the prison to be taken here.

The sun is sweltering, beating down on the line of slaves mercilessly. None will complain though, they will not say a word; any fight they once had in them beaten down over the time they had spent in slavery. The whip in their new Master's hands was enough to keep them silent.

"You will address us as 'Master', and Lady Hisana and Lady Rukia as 'Ma'am'. 'S that clear?" Renji stills in front of a tall slave, planting his boot-clad feet into the ground and sliding his hand along his whip, his gaze travelling down the row of slaves.

A collective voice of  _yes, master_  is heard from all 11 slaves, with Grimmjow's deep voice blending amongst the rest. He adjusts his weight again, sharp eyes cutting to the side as he mumbles his obedience to one of his new Masters. They haven't yet seen their final Master, the young adopted brother of the Kuchiki family.  _Probably too perfect to grace us lowly ones with his presence,_  Grimmjow thinks sarcastically. He would never say it out loud; his bite had been beaten out of him since his teenage years, having been a slave all his life, and as he approached 25 he had matured to the point where he could remain cold and detached to what went on around him. Emotion would earn him pain. He would no longer lash out like he once did, no longer talked back; the scars on his back were enough to convince him to hold his tongue.

"Good. Now go wash or somethin', you all smell like shit. The trough is there. Sixty-nine, show 'em. Then it's straight to work."

"Yes, master," a dark-haired slave with tattoos adorning his face comes forward from where he was attending to the gardens, and Renji turns as he passes, returning towards the estate, probably for shade and a rest before he is to attend to the slaves once again.

The dark-haired slave, nicknamed Sixty-nine, gives them a curt nod of  _follow me_  and leads them towards the water troughs and pump, keys to their chains in hand. They are lining up orderly without being told, eager to finally have their hands and feet free and to wash themselves. Grimmjow makes it to the front, placing his hands in Sixty-nine's and hears the familiar click of the lock, chains falling away as Sixty-nine kneels to do the same to his feet. Grimmjow rubs his wrists, the scars from constant chains adorning them, and as he steps out of the ones at his feet he heads towards the troughs as he hears Sixty-nine call for  _next!_

He feels light, painfully so, and immediately dips his hands inside the water trough filled with water, splashing it on his face and through his hair gratefully. He feels like he is in heaven, there is even  _soap_ , for gods sake. He mirrors what his fellow slaves are doing, stripping himself of his shirt as he is passed one of those heavenly bars of soap, scrubbing himself down thoroughly then rinsing. He returns to just splashing his face when he is satisfied with his cleanliness, feeling the rivulets run down his face and arms, the lightness of his limbs from lack of chains. He had heard in rumor that Master Kuchiki treated his slaves fairly, and despite not starting physical work yet, Grimmjow was inclined to agree. Soap and freedom from chains was enough for him at this point.

The clamor of his fellow slaves alerts him, and he wipes his wet face with his equally wet forearm, then again with his hand, as he glances towards the mansion. He hears the older slaves' greetings, curtsies and bowing, and the new slaves like Grimmjow are all turning towards the noise and adjusting their posture by reflex. Grimmjow remains bent over the trough, running his hands through his drenched hair as it falls stubbornly in his eyes, and makes out the new figure accompanying Master Abarai.

He is beautiful.

That is the only word Grimmjow can think to describe the youth approaching. He is young; late teens perhaps, hair a beautiful tangerine and skin lightly tanned. His pants are tucked into boots, embroided shirt fitted in all the right places on his frame. He is lithe, in an almost thin, effeminate way.

_He is beautiful._

Master Ichigo was adopted into the Kuchiki house from a young age, and so was treated as nobility all his life alongside his adopted sisters. He is smiling lightly at his future-brother-in-law's words, and Renji laughs along with him. They both divert their attention to the group in front of them, Ichigo's expression reverting to a more neutral one, and Grimmjow straightens, wiping his face again.

Renji addresses them again,  _you will refer to him as Master,_  and drills them on their duties which they are to begin immediately. Ichigo nudges his friend, whispering something in his ear, his body language showing his intent to leave. Grimmjow watches the sensual movement of his lips against the other's ear, despite the act itself being anything but. Renji nods, returning to what he was saying and Ichigo's gaze runs down the line once more.

Each of the slaves have their eyes trained on Renji, listening in fear of the whip he fingers at his side, except for one. Ichigo's gaze meets Grimmjow's and time seems to stop. Grimmjow's sky blue irises lock with Ichigo's chocolate hue, and Grimmjow holds his gaze, staring back into  _beauty._

And then it is over. Time resumes it's ticking, and Grimmjow lets out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as Ichigo turns swiftly, heading back to the estate with not a single glance back.

Grimmjow's sharp gaze remains on his retreating back, even as Renji quips for them to set to work; even as the other slaves reach for the tools set up next to them to take.

The tall slave next to him gives him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder, and only then does Grimmjow's gaze fall to the ground, a single nod of acknowledgement as he finally reaches for the plow leaning against the trough. The slave - Starrk - heads off after the others towards the field near the estate, and Grimmjow follows, eyes returning to the balcony of the house where a tuft of sunset-colored hair can just be seen.

_He is beautiful._


	2. heat me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those who are interested, the setting is the 19th century, and the characters are all speaking with a Louisiana/Mississippi accent. Think 12 Years a Slave.

Ichigo nods absently, for the most part only half-listening to what Rukia is saying as he fans himself restlessly. They sit outside today, at the back of the house, in the shade at a small table, looking out onto the fields where the slaves are working. Renji rides his horse Zabimaru amongst them as he watches, whip hitting the dirt in warning every time a slave seems to slack off in the slightest.

Rukia twitters on about her plans for her and Renji's wedding;  _this colour_  and  _that breed of flower_  and  _what do you think of this?_  and Ichigo smiles and nods along again, and it seems to satisfy his adopted sister as she continues. Byakuya and Hisana have gone back inside to escape the heat; Byakuya knows Renji can handle the slaves on his own, and it is only Ichigo and Rukia that remain outside, drinking tea idly in the shade. The crack of the whip is heard again, this time next to a quiet blond slave, hair falling over half of his face, as Renji yells at him to  _git back to work!_

The sun is high in the sky and the slaves are sweating, probably not used to the dry heat of their new home; Ichigo could see them panting, sweat soaking through their clothes, drenching their rags in water to drape over their own heads as they work. He eyes each slave, taking in their features; the ones working in the fields are all male, as the few female slaves were taken inside on the first day to work in the kitchens. Ichigo comes to the blue-haired slave, the one with  _those eyes._ The blue-haired slave places his plow on the ground, swiping an arm over his face to wipe away the sweat coating his skin, before grasping his sleeves and pulling his shirt over his head.

Ichigo's eyelids flutter as he inhales softly, biting his lip, watching the slave's muscles glisten and stretch; the bulge of his biceps, the lines of his rib cage leading down to hard abdominals, the way sweat runs down his neck to his collarbone only to continue down pectorals that shine with perspiration. Ichigo's gaze lowers to his waist, the lines of his hipbones creating that V line and Ichigo's head fills with heat as he takes in Grimmjow's frame, how large he is; how big he must be in  _other_  places-

Ichigo straightens his spine, legs spreading slightly as he feels his cock twitch, and that is when the blue-haired slave catches him  _looking,_  wiping his face with his arm. Ichigo's body feels hot, breath stunted and the sound of Rukia's voice fades as the slave meets his eyes, his gaze dark, sharp features expressionless. Ichigo licks his lips, watching the slave's eyes drop to watch the movement. There is buzzing in his ears and Ichigo feels heat between his legs, plump lips slightly open as he shudders and his cock throbs against his leg. Those _eyes,_ ice blue and fierce with fire, and Ichigo bites at his lip; he almost thinks that the slave must be able to see his arousal through his _clothes_ -

A whip cracks at the ground next to Grimmjow, who doesn't even flinch, and Ichigo jumps in his seat. "Ichigo? Are you listening to me?" Rukia prods him, and Ichigo looks at her, slightly startled.

Renji is dismounting his horse, getting up in Grimmjow's face, asking him what he was looking at, what's got him so distracted that he can't even do his  _fucking work._

Grimmjow turns to him, features blank and Renji scowls, looking the slave up and down, pulling him roughly to look at the scars, the large branding of a 6 on his back.

"You lookin' at somethin', Sexta? Somethin' up there more interestin' than yer work?" Renji asks, a glance towards his fiancee and brother-in-law.

Grimmjow frowns, contempt absent from his face, "My name is Grimm-"

"What did you say,  _Sexta?_ " Renji barks, eyes dark and challenging, hand tight on the handle of his whip, face too close.

Grimmjow's jaw tightens, eyes flickering momentarily towards the whip, gaze steady. _Emotion earns pain._ The air is heavy, the silence stifling. "Nothing," he says lowly, his tone thick, "Master."

Renji snorts, taking a step back, searching the slave's face for any sign of disobedience, a reason to use his whip. "Then get back to work,  _Sexta._ " He makes no move to turn away, waiting for Grimmjow to start working or talk back, whichever came first, and Grimmjow pauses, eyes fierce as he stares back.

Then he finally bends over, picking up the plow, and on the way back up he casts a fleeting look at Ichigo, eyes heated with something that isn't anger, before the moment is broken and he returns to work, Renji watching him closely.

 

"Sorry, Rukia, what were you saying." Ichigo says softly, head fuzzy and body hot. Rukia eyes him warily but repeats herself, and Ichigo listens.

The day continues, Grimmjow works on, but Renji keeps a close eye on him, fiddling with his whip, ready to use it if need be. There was something about this new slave, something in his eyes, that made him cautious.

And unbeknownst to Renji, another pair of eyes lingers on the new slave discreetly, but this gaze holds an intent that is completely different.


	3. taste me

Grimmjow trudges over to the slave named Sixty-nine, basket full of corn cradled in his arms. Early that morning he had been assigned the task of harvesting the fields, and by lunch time with the sun high up in the sky, he has already filled up the large basket he'd been given, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

"Take it inside. Give it to the kitchen hands," Sixty-nine tells Grimmjow softly, gesturing with his chin towards the large estate. Grimmjow nods but doesn't say anything, turning curtly and trodding towards the mansion, basket in hand.

The basket is heavy, his biceps straining under his shirt; filled to the brim with ripened corn that glints mildly in the sunlight. His shirt is sticking to his back uncomfortably, and he is glad he finished so early; appreciative of the small rest he is being given by taking the brimming basket inside his masters' house.

He stomps up the concrete steps to the backdoor, resting the heavy basket against a hip with one hand and opening the door with the other; arms straining. The blue-haired slave peeks his head inside the doorway, searching for the kitchen hands. There is no one around, but many times he had done this before, so he wipes his feet on the doormat roughly and steps inside the spacious kitchen, closing the fly-screen door behind him.

Approaching the kitchen counter in front of him, he heaves the weighty basket up and onto the flat surface, and it makes a loud sound with the weight. He pauses, breathing in deeply and closing his eyes; just for a second, he tells himself. He is hot, sweating, just wanting a brief reprieve. The kitchen is significantly cooler than outside in the afternoon sun; much quieter, too, and Grimmjow curls his toes into the floor, a bead of sweat running down his forehead.

"Renji, you bastard, stop being such a..."

Grimmjow snaps his eyes open at the voice, but doesn't flinch; nothing ever startled him enough anymore to make him jump. He raises his head at the sight of Ichigo entering the kitchen, wearing a casual vest over a loose shirt; thin calves wrapped in leather boots that go up to his knees. His master freezes, looking surprised at the sight of the  slave standing alone in the empty kitchen, and all he manages is an, "...oh."

Grimmjow straightens his posture without thinking, a habit beaten into him throughout his life, taking his hands off the basket from where they rested and eyeing the beautiful young man in front of him, eyes raving over his attractive attire.

"What are you doing in here." Ichigo's tone is not angry, but still holds a stern authority; it speaks of being taught all his life of the proper way to talk to slaves. _They are not your friends. They belong to you. They are your objects._

Grimmjow's icy-blue eyes drop to the basket in front of him, gesturing towards it with his hand and saying gruffly, "...I was told to bring this here."

Ichigo's eyes mimic him, dropping to the basket filled to the brim with ripened corn; so much of it that it is spilling over the top and onto the counter. He looks back to Grimmjow's face again slowly, gaze steady and unfathomably deep, a long silence as their eyes meet, and voice like honey, so soft, "...I see. Well done."

His eyes are the colour of mahogany, and heated with something dark, and he just stares into Grimmjow's blue irises silently, holding his gaze. Grimmjow feels sweat slide down his brow and looks quickly down to his feet, feeling uncomfortable staring into such beauty from so close - a slave should never meet their Master's eyes.

He swallows thickly as he hears Ichigo step forward towards him, but he doesn't look up. Ichigo steps forward again, closer, and Grimmjow can feel his own heartbeat thumping in his chest as his master approaches... only to brush right past him - surely that brush of clothes on his arm is on purpose - and towards the counter behind him. Grimmjow is stiff, hands rolled into fists as he hears Ichigo clattering with something in the cupboards behind him, but he doesn't turn, swallowing drily.

"Would you like some water?"

It takes him a second to realize that Ichigo is talking to him; he turns around hesitantly, and Ichigo stands at the counter there, pouring water from a jug into a single glass. Grimmjow's adam's apple bobs as he swallows, watching the water swirl in the crystal glass, and he finally raises his eyes to meet Ichigo's gaze, which have not moved from watching him. His eyes are on Grimmjow, face unreadable and he leans back against the counter, holding the glass out towards him.

Grimmjow stares at it; Ichigo is not making any move to come closer, instead waiting for the slave to come to him. He realizes he hadn't replied to Ichigo's question, but the petite young man in front of him doesn't seem to mind; simply gazing right into him with those eyes, those long eyelashes that make Grimmjow want to do unspeakable things.

He takes a few slow steps forward, reaching out and curling his fingers around the glass, and surely Ichigo is doing that on purpose; holding onto it a little too long, their fingers touching. His master's skin is cool, and his fingers so delicate and thin and pale against Grimmjow's calloused ones - hot desire shoots through his groin, imagining rubbing his calloused fingers over his master's unblemished skin; what if Ichigo is that delicate and thin and pale in other places too; his waist, his hips, _between his thighs_ -

Ichigo's lip quirks, as if he can read his mind, as if he _knows_ , and his long fingers draw away from the glass, his lidded gaze never leaving Grimmjow's. He watches heatedly as the slave brings the glass to his lips, stares as he takes large gulps of the cool liquid; eyes sliding down his muscled neck and watching it move, the beads of sweat coating his skin there. The slave is significantly taller than him, larger, made of hard muscle; could probably throw him around if he wanted to, and the thought makes Ichigo ache. His eyes lower further, over the slave's muscled chest, biceps straining under his shirt; even further, to the large bulge of his groin and Ichigo bites his lips. Grimmjow finishes the glass in one go, lowering it away from his mouth and Ichigo looks back up quickly, steps forward towards him and all Grimmjow can hear is the buzzing of cicadas loud in his ears.

Ichigo reaches out a delicate hand - perfect, unblemished skin; never worked a day in his life - slowly reaching out and up, and his fingers press against Grimmjow's clavicle; sliding slowly, languidly, against the sweat pooling in his sharp collarbone. "You're sweating," he murmurs, voice soft and velvet, melting into the buzzing of cicadas like honey. His touch feels like it is burning, leaving a slow, scorching trail in it's wake across his tanned skin as Ichigo's hooded eyes stare into his soul, looking deep inside and tearing him apart. His hot fingertips slide across his skin so sensually, leaving fingerprints in his mind, and Grimmjow can't stop the shudder that wracks him; arousal spiking through him sharply, heady and warm and making his eyes close.

And then the touch is gone, and Grimmjow opens his eyes dazedly to the sight of his master looking down at the sweat coating his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth and smearing them across his own lips. Ichigo stares into the slave's eyes, cheeks flushed, eyelashes fluttering and gaze full of such heat and thick, swirling arousal that Grimmjow feels his heavy cock twitch inside his pants.

A clatter from behind them makes Ichigo visibly jump; the kitchen hands enter the kitchen chattering loudly, and Grimmjow watches his master's cheeks flush darker, doe-brown eyes dropping to the floor quickly as he distances himself from the blue-haired slave. He is out of the room before any of the other slaves could greet their young master - a few of them watching his quickly retreating back in confusion - and Grimmjow breathes out slowly, placing the glass back on the counter.

He is throbbing, achingly hard in his underwear, and his master's heated gaze scorches him like the six tattooed on his back, imprinted forever in his mind.


End file.
